


My Cup of Tea

by JustAnotherNerd1820



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley summoned by cult, Don’t read if you are squeamish, Guys I swear I don’t really know what happened here, Hurt Crowley, I don’t swear but other stuff happens, I should apologize but I won’t, M/M, Other, this was supposed to be fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherNerd1820/pseuds/JustAnotherNerd1820
Summary: Crowley is summoned by a cult, and they torture him. Aziraphale has to come rescue Crowley, and enlists the help of Anathema and Newt.
Relationships: Crowley/Aziraphale, Demon/angel - Relationship, Newton Pulsifer/Anathema Device
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I hope you’re all doing well. Originally I was writing this fic with my friend StarCrossedStarLost (go check ‘em out) and it was to be a fluffy Wolfstar coffee shop AU. And now we’re here because my angsty self couldn’t help but be angsty. Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters.

It was a fine day. Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting in the bookshop, simply enjoying the other’s company.  
“I think I really did enjoy Great Expectations more than I did Oliver Twist, but that’s just my personal opinion. I know you haven’t read them, but you really should.” Crowley smiled. Hearing Aziraphale go on about books was nothing short of pleasing.  
“I’m going to go make some tea, do you want some?” Crowley asked. He hadn’t always been fond of tea or cakes, but Aziraphale had finally been able to encourage him to try them. The tea he could live with, but the food still settled oddly in his stomach.  
The kitchen was small, but there was a little shelf inside reserved especially for Aziraphale’s angel wing mugs. Crowley reached for one, but found that it slipped right through his hand and fell to the floor.  
“What the--” Crowley wondered, bending over to pick up the pieces, putting them back together with a snap of his fingers. However, he realized that said fingers were not entirely there. “Aziraphale!” he called out in alarm.  
Aziraphale quickly rushed to the kitchen to see what was the matter. “What-- oh no.”  
“I have to go,” Crowley said, picking up his jacket from the couch and heading out the door, hearing the gentle tingle of the bell.  
“Where are you going?” Aziraphale shouted after him.  
“I’ll be back, I promise!” Crowley ran to his car and shut the door. He checked his hands again, they were almost fully transparent now. With a quick miracle, he parked himself in front of his own flat and waited for several agonizing seconds before he was no longer in his car.  
It was dark, so dark, but Crowley could see in the blackest of nights, so it wasn’t too much of a problem. The room was lit with several tall candles, dimly flickering. Crowley sniffed the air and found a terrible burning sensation in his nose. Incense, he realized. It felt just like when he and Aziraphale went to Anathema’s place and she had forgotten to not cleanse her home of occult spirits.  
Crowley gazed across the room, his eyes landing on a group of people in dark cloaks. A few of their faces were completely obscured, but those who had their hoods down wore identical shocked expressions.  
At Crowley’s feet were drawn a series of letters and circles. He let out a groan. Of course. Some cult has decided they wanted to summon a demon, ooh how creative. Brilliant. This wasn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened, of course.  
Every once and a while Crowley just happens to be the closest demon around and he gets transported to some dingy basement with a group of fake edgy people. Usually his procedure is just frightening off the cult members until they release him and he can get back to dinner with his husband. Honestly, was that too much to ask?  
“Hey, demons. It’s me, ya boy,” Crowley said, starting off with a joke thing Adam had shown him. It didn’t exactly fit, as the cult members were certainly not demons, but it was Crowley’s favorite "meh mey", which is what Adam called the little pictures with words on them.  
“Silence, demon,” the person in the middle snapped at him. He held a book open in his arms and was staring Crowley down. The boy had his hood down, and he looked no older than seventeen. “Tell us who you are and your intentions.”  
Crowley fought the urge to roll his eyes, but humored the boy. “Demon Crowley, snake of Eden, first temptation something or other...” he let his voice trail to the side. Admittedly, he’d forgotten most of his titles. And he needed to get out of here.  
The boy narrowed his eyes at Crowley. “And your intentions?”  
Crowley snorted. “Look, mate, you were the one who summoned me here--”  
“Silence!”  
“Okay, relax, please.” The boy’s tone was a little alarming, so Crowley let out an awkward chuckle.  
“What are you doing on Earth?” the boy demanded.  
Crowley scratched the nape of his neck. “Ah, yes, right, that. Well I was kind of assigned here but then the lads Down There didn’t really want me back so now I just kind of hang around with my...” Crowley glanced at the boy’s cruel face. He figured that he didn’t need to know the exact nature of his and Aziraphale’s relationship, in that they had been married for quite some time now. They were thinking of getting a cottage in the South Downs. Crowley should look more into that when he got back. “Friend. We hang out loads.”  
“And what is the name of this friend?”  
Crowley scoffed. “Hah, yeah right. Like I’m going to tell you that.” Crowley knew the power that names held, especially here in summoning circles. “So,” Crowley said, dragging out the “o” far longer than it needed to be. “Is there anything you… need from me? Like some kind of demonic influence or sacrifice whatever or can I be on my way? I’ve kind of got dinner reservation for eight.”  
“Who would you be having dinner reservations with, foul demon?” the boy asked scornfully.  
“My friend, obviously. He’ll probably order half the dessert menu. ” Crowley said fondly with a light laugh.  
“You’re useless.”  
Crowley shrugged. “I get that a lot. So… can I go now?”  
“No.”  
“Right.” Crowley rolled his eyes again, looking around at the room he was trapped in. “Nice basement you’ve got here. Who’s is it? Your mum’s?” Crowley teased the boy, raising the corner of his mouth in a smirk.  
“Do you know that you’re completely thick?” the boy growled,  
“Yeah, my husband says that a lot.”  
Many of the other boys in the cult gasped at Crowley’s comment.  
"Your husband?"  
Crowley swore in his head. It slipped out. Might as well roll with it.  
"Yup. I am happily married to a man." Crowley paused. "Well… mostly a man. He's man shaped. Most of the time."  
The boys stared at Crowley, and then the older boy slapped him. Crowley swore out loud this time.  
"What was that for?"  
"You are a foul, loathsome, evil, little creature!"  
"So I've been told."  
"You should be against the l-law."  
Crowley heard the tremor in the boy's voice.  
"You're scared of me."  
"No! I am not!" The boy slapped Crowley again.  
Crowley winced. "That hurt, maybe lay off the hitting for a while, 'k?"  
"You shouldn't exist!"  
"Are we talking about the demon part or the queer bit?”  
"B-both."  
The boys were circling around Crowley. It was making him a bit claustrophobic, really. He wasn't scared though. He'd been trained for this sort of thing. Mostly, the whole anti-queer thing kind of threw him for a loop. There weren't that many demons in relationships for some of the same reasons, he supposed.  
"You should be against the law!" The boy pulled Crowley out of his small reflective moment.  
"I'm sorry, what?"  
"You queers." Crowley had read about words being spat out of someone's mouth, but the way the boy said "queers" made Crowley truly understand what it meant.  
"Um… okay. Can I go yet? I really do have dinner reservations."  
"You're not right." The boy was talking to himself more than Crowley now. "You're not right."  
"I'm sorry," Crowley said. "You're the one summoning demons at what, fourteen? You can't be quite right either."  
The boy's face twisted with fury, and Crowley received yet another slap across the face. If this kept up, Crowley would be covered in bruises by the time he went home -- even if he was using the off miracle to keep the swelling at bay.  
"Boys, tie him down."  
Crowley should have struggled harder, he should have tried with more force to get out of the circle. But one foot across the line and he hissed in agony, sounding like the snake he once was.  
The boys giggled at Crowley's futile attempts to run away.  
Crowley made a face at them, and they scattered like mice under a cat's glare. "At least you did your homework."  
"I try to be prepared for these sorts of things."  
The boy produced a chair from somewhere, and Crowley was forced onto it, and tied down. The other boys circled even closer to Crowley, despite the obvious fear on some of their faces.  
"So," the boy in charge began. "You're a demon and a… a…"  
A small boy leaned over and whispered into the older boy's ear, who laughed cruelly at the suggestion.  
"Exactly," he nodded at the small boy. "But since we have some children here who are younger than thirteen, we will stick with queer."  
He spat the word out again, as Crowley shuddered at the thought of mere children, children, watching his suffering and if not enjoying it, at least allowing it to happen.  
"Demon Crowley, I forbid you from sending out any sort of distress signal, any sort of communication, any sort of notice, to anyone. I don't care what you're saying or who you're saying it to, whether it be what the weather is like, or how you prefer your tea, you are not to send out any communication from this point on."  
"Don't like tea that much," Crowley muttered, and the boy slapped him again.  
“Demon, show us your wings."  
Crowley scrunched his face up, attempting to ignore the order. But his wings unfurled as if by their own accord, crumpled by the chair, but hauntingly beautiful nonetheless.  
"Boys, go get your scissors."  
Crowley swallowed hard, but he still wasn't scared. That true fear, true terror, would come later.  
"I was hoping to torture a demon tonight, but I didn't know I'd have the pleasure of torturing a queer as well."  
Crowley was agitated now, for certain. He squirmed in the chair, attempting to loosen the ropes around his wrists, too panicked to think of any miracles that might help him. Not that he could get away so easily, anyway. Occult powers never worked in these binding, controlling circles.  
The boy reached out, gently tugging on a feather, with a smile on his face that made Crowley wonder if he was being seduced. The boy yanked the feather out with a sudden jerk of his arm, and Crowley gritted his teeth. He wouldn't scream for the boys, wouldn't give them that satisfaction.  
The boy stepped back. "As much as I'd love to pull out every feather on your cursed back, I do have friends who would love to torture you as much as I do."  
Another boy steps forward, and rips another feather out. More boys come forward, abandoning their scissors on the floor, but never abandoning the protective anonymity of their hoods.  
The boy stood next to Crowley, watching the action with a smug, satisfied smile on his face. He bent down and whispered in Crowley's ear.  
"You know it's okay to scream, right? No one will ever be able to hear you. Not even if your friends were right outside."  
"I. Don't. Have. Friends." Crowley grunted, as four new feathers were plucked off his back.  
"You know what I mean." The boy picked up the scissors, and gently traced the shape of Crowley's jawline. "Oh and demon, I wondered if you found any loopholes in the previous order that I gave you."  
Crowley grunted, "you want fries with that?" He's breathing heavily, but the words come out mostly unencumbered.  
"Answer me, demon."  
"No." Crowley's breathing was beginning to even out, and the short, shallow breaths were becoming deeper.  
The boy bends down and picks up a pair of scissors from the floor. The boy now has two pairs of scissors. Crowley's heart rate has begun to pick up pace just a little.  
"Is one of those scissors a pair of lefty scissors?"  
The boy glanced down at his own hands, and back at Crowley. "Yes, as a matter of fact, yes."  
"Oh thank goodness someone was able to find a pair! I have been in need of one of those things ever since my husband enlisted me into working at his bookshop. It's a nightmare! Using right handed scissors on a hand that really only works with the left handed ones."  
Crowley's stalling. He doesn't want to be tortured can’t be tortured. He can’t let Aziraphale worry about him more than he already does.  
The boy ignores the obvious jab at his homophobia, and continues to trace Crowley's face, scissors running down both sides of his cheeks now.  
"I'm ambidextrous."  
"Oh lucky. You'd think that after all this time, all these millenia, I'd have learned how to use both my right and left hands equally, but I never seem to have the time to learn."  
The boy made a face at Crowley, and stopped the scissors.  
Crowley relaxed just a little, but his breath hitched -- and not in the way Aziraphale made it hitch -- when the boy began to cut his hair off. Little snips here and there, the floor and Crowley's shoulders beginning to get covered in hair. The boy began to trace the face with the scissors in his right hand, carefully slashing Crowley's hair with the other.  
"Boys, come," commanded the boy who was slashing off Crowley's hair. As boys began to crowd around Crowley, his heart rate picked up. "You may resume the plucking of the… the… chicken." He spat out this word too, contempt almost visible in the air.  
The boys kept coming-there seemed to be more of them than Crowley had originally thought. His breathing came heavier and heavier. He'd had panic attacks before, but they haven't ever felt this bad. The internal monologue started up, pairing with the clicks of scissors and small grunts as his feathers were forced off his body.  
You're so stupid. This is your fault. Aziraphale is going to be so worried, and it's all your fault. Your plants are going to die. More deaths on your hands. How many people have died because of you? Too many, Crowley. You don't deserve to be here. Well, here as in the Earth, you do deserve to be here as in this torture chamber you are currently tied to a chair in.  
Trying to calm himself, Crowley recalled his favorite memories of Aziraphale. That small smile when his husband was immersed deeply in a book, and could almost see the people talking. The way he always knew when he should be the big spoon to make Crowley feel safe.  
Crowley let out another swear, but it wasn't helping. Probably because he couldn't leave the situation. Aziraphale has told him that when he starts to let his brain take control, that he needs to leave the situation so that fire doesn't start spewing out of his mouth.  
He'd also suggested therapy, a bit more tentatively, though. Crowley had ignored Aziraphale then, but now therapy seemed like it might be a good idea. Although that might have just been wishful thinking about getting out of the circle. Leaving the situation was actually a really good idea, but a little hard to follow through on when he was trapped in a demon summoning cult wielding scissors. Crowley lashed his arms out without thinking, fire spurting from his hand, and boys jumped back, startled.  
"Demon Crowley!" snapped the boy. "I forbid you from harming me or any of my friends in any way possible!"  
Crowley swallowed hard. "Are you sure they're your friends?"  
The boy slapped him again, and continued. "I also forbid you, demon Crowley, from struggling."  
Crowley tried to protest, but his hands jerked involuntarily and a wave of nausea ran through his body. A small shudder began to build itself up at his feet. The boy summoned another small child to his side, and was holding a mirror. Crowley has no choice but to stare into bloodshot eyes, roving over the face that looks nothing like his own, sweat running down his face, mixing with tears that Crowley would never admit to having shed. He has no choice but to see the stumps of the wings he has left. No choice but to see the nearly hairless creature in front of him.  
The boy handed the mirror to the smaller boy, and Crowley watched as the scissors were lifted to his skull, and began to scratch off the remaining jagged clumps of hair.  
"Stay still demon!"  
Crowley is in as much pain as he has ever been in. Stiff as a board, wanting to move but unable to, wanting to scream but forcing himself not to, wanting to get out of this place but powerless to leave.  
Finally, with his head bleeding, covered in scratches, completely hairless, the boy nodded and the mirror was lowered. The boys in their robes have pulled knives out. Crowley doesn't want to know where they have been. Or where they are going to go, quite honestly. The dim candlelight illuminated the hilts, glinting dangerously, matching the boy's smile almost perfectly.  
"Do you know Greek, demon Crowley?"  
Crowley grimaced, and tried to straighten in his chair, but pain shot through him.  
"Answer me demon!"  
"I can, if I needed to decipher it."  
"How about other languages?"  
"I can read them all, speak them all, write them all, if I needed to."  
"Good."  
Crowley's anxiety level has completely blown through any stupid "one to ten" scale that Aziraphale makes him use sometimes when they go to parties and there are too many people. The boys have gone and come back with small slips of paper in their hands.  
"Greek?" calls out the boy.  
A small figure makes its way through the masses. "Here, Kek."  
The boy-Kek?-swore. "I told you not to use names!" He glanced at Crowley. "Well I suppose we'll have to work with it. Do you have your paper?"  
The small boy nodded, and pulled it out. It had letters that Crowley didn't immediately recognize, but when he realized what they spelled out, he blanched.  
"Good. You can have," he paused, looking at Crowley the way a butcher looks at a choice cow. "This part." Kek pulled a red marker out of his robe, and began sectioning off Crowley's body, and passing out parts to the boys surrounding him.  
"Here." A small touch.  
"Here." A brush of the fingers.  
"Here." Was it Crowley's imagination or were Kek's fingers lingering longer and longer on Crowley's skin? He really hoped not. His mental breakdown capacity was almost at its max.  
"Now demon, you speak English most fluently, yes?"  
"I speak English most currently on a daily basis," Crowley managed to get out between gritted teeth.  
"Good." Stabbing pains were coming from every direction now. Arms, legs, and Crowley had the feeling that he might have to take his shirt off at some point. He shuddered involuntarily. He had enough scars there already.  
"Yo-you do realize I can h-heal m-m-myself right?" Crowley was practically vibrating with pain, and a stutter was starting to come out.  
"Demon Crowley, I forbid you from healing yourself," the boy said in reply, a smirk playing across his face.  
"I'll-I'll just do it when you r-r-release m-me."  
"Who said anything about releasing you?"  
Crowley swallowed hard, true fear finally spreading across his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own these characters.

Aziraphale was very confused as to why Crowley had left on such short notice. It’s true that he still had his old flat, though he’d been staying in the bookshop for longer and longer periods of time, especially now they were married.  
It’s fine, Aziraphale tried to convince himself. Crowley most likely just had some business to attend to. Or Hell sent him a message he needed to follow up on? Though they haven't heard from the higher ups for a long time now.  
The angel began to fret, pacing the floor, wearing the carpet down more than it already was. What if Hell had finally decided that it’s finally time to punish Crowley for his and Aziraphale’s crimes?  
“No, it can’t be. That’s a silly thought,” Aziraphale tried to convince himself, sitting down on the lush chair he favored. He picked up the book that had rested there and tapped his fingers on the cover nervously.  
If not a message from Head Office, then what? Aziraphale began to run the possibilities over in his head. He tried to think back to the moment when Crowley left. Suddenly it dawned upon him. Crowley hadn’t been all the way there when he dashed out. He was transparent, disappearing.  
Aziraphale had only seen this happen in person only once before, several centuries ago. Crowley had been summoned, as he told Aziraphale much after the fact, by a group of witches. They had wanted power and riches, the usual. Crowley had granted them as such -- with the minor cost of selling their souls away -- and boasted that he had truly terrorized them to never trifle with demons again.  
Crowley often talked about his valiant escapades with cults and such, but Aziraphale suspected that it didn’t always end up so smoothly. Could this be one of those times? he wondered. Could Crowley be hurt?  
Aziraphale needed to find him. He knew that Crowley could have been summoned from mostly anywhere, so the thought of finding him seemed fairly impossible, but Aziraphale had to do all he could to save him.  
Usually, Aziraphale was able to naturally sense where Crowley was, but he couldn’t now. It was as if something was blocking the demon’s signal. It’s a little disorienting, having a constant notifier just disappear like that.  
The tea kettle went off, making Aziraphale nearly jump out of his shoes. “Oh dear,” said the angel. He went to turn off the stove and pour the tea into two more of the same mugs he has on the shelf. One for himself, and one for Crowley, when he got back.  
Aziraphale nodded at his high self confidence and sipped at his scalding tea. “Perhaps the Pulsifers can help,” Aziraphale said aloud. He finished his drink and set it down. Out of habit, he went outside the bookshop for a ride in the Bentley. When he noticed again that it, along with its designated driver had gone, he realized his mistake and instead miracled himself to the little cottage in Tadfield. He hoped they would be able to help him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still don’t own Good Omens, actually, I think the only thing about Good Omens that I own is the book.

If one had been standing outside of the shelter-hovel, really-within who's basement Crowley was being kept, they wouldn't have been able to hear his screams. The only beings around who would have been able to hear him were the boys, and the leader didn't care, so neither did the others.  
Laughing, Kek dug his knife in harder to Crowley's hand. The demon's body was covered with words, in every language imaginable. Crowley screamed again, and the boy merely stood by and laughed.  
"I didn't know someone who acts so manly could get their voice that high."  
"I'm a demon, I'm sexless, I'm technically ageless, and besides, you've never felt true pain before."  
"True pain?" Kek retorted. "I'm honored."  
Crowley grimaced as Kek drove the knife deeper. "You shouldn't be, my husband says I have a very low pain tolerance." He paused, attempting to ignore the pain. "Although once, I did drive a burning car through the M25…"  
Kek looked at Crowley suspiciously, then slapped him. "No one wants to hear about your husband or about you. I bet your husband doesn't even care that you're gone. I bet he's glad that you're gone. You're nothing. You're useless and stupid and should go back to Hell where you belong."  
Crowley was stunned, but his face didn’t show it. His heart hurt, and he felt like he might vomit. It distracted him from the rest of the pain, but he'd take that any day over Kek telling him Aziraphale doesn't care. Because that thought has been in Crowley's brain for six thousand years. Even though Aziraphale has proven it wrong time and time again, it's still there, waiting for gratification and recognition.  
"You… you…" Crowley isn't sure how to respond.  
"Good. Now that you've finally shut up on your own, I'm going to make sure that you never speak again." Kek paused. "Unless of course, I decide you can talk again, but that won't be for a little while."  
Kek clapped his hands, and a small, blond haired boy, brought a needle and thread over to where Crowley was tied to the chair.  
The statements don't sink in and Crowley doesn't comprehend what is happening until too late. "No! You wouldn't! I-I can rip out the stitches! I'll… you… don't!  
"Yes," replied the boy simply.  
Pain exploded along Crowley's face as the needle was pushed through the left corner of his lips. The thread was stretched on his lips, and Crowley's eyebrows furrowed with a determination not to scream. The thread burns on his face -- he's pretty sure it's been blessed -- but that would have been impossible. What kind of idiot would bless thread? Crowley thought, pain making his thoughts incoherent and muddled. It burnt, and it hurt almost enough to distract Crowley from the rest of the hurt, his heart, his head, his arms, but not quite.  
Kek was clearly enjoying the process, slowly working the needle through Crowley's lips. Sweat has begun to pull at the nape of Crowley's neck, soaking through his jacket collar. Kek stepped back, a sneer crossing his face as he admires his handiwork.  
"You know demon," he began. "The stitches are a bit uneven… perhaps I should do it over.  
Crowley wanted to move, wanted to run away, wanted to scream. Most of all, he wanted Aziraphale.  
Kek pulled out a seam ripper. Crowley was frozen. Whether from the order or from fear, he's unsure, but he can't move, however much he wants to. Kek gently traced Crowley's lips with the seam ripper, the cold metal a quiet relief for the pain. Then Kek pulls the stitches out. One by one.  
As soon as Kek finished, Crowley gasped and doubled over, ignoring the pain, the warnings in his head that he was disobeying the orders. He just needed a reminder that his mouth still worked.  
"Shut up demon Crowley," Kek said, contempt evident in his voice.  
Crowley whimpered, but shut his mouth, tears pooling in his eyes. He's wishing he really had wanted to use that Holy Water from Aziraphale for suicide. It would have been so much better than this.  
"Sit up demon. And stay still!"  
Crowley's nose twitched twice, and the stitches were restitched, Crowley trying to leave the situation, to go into his head, but he couldn't.  
"There," said Kek, once he was done. "That's better isn't it?" He paused, admiring his neat lines across Crowley's mouth. "Although," he said. "I do prefer red more than black." He trailed his finger over the uncut end of thread, allowing Crowley to see it from the corner of his eye. The thread was black.  
Crowley's eyes widened, but Kek has moved on.  
"I suppose we should do something about… all this… extra stuff."  
Crowley wasn't sure what that meant, but it couldn't have been good.  
"Your nose isn't necessary, is it?" Kek took his knife out of his pocket, and began to saw off Crowley's nose. "You can still breathe, right demon?"  
Crowley could, but it was awful. He stayed silent all the way through his ear tips being cut off, but when the knife was released, a small moan escaped his closed lips.  
"Do you know why I am leaving your ears mostly intact, demon Crowley?"  
Even if Crowley had been able to answer, he didn't have smart enough retort. The pain drowned out any thinking. The only thing he was able to hold in his mind was Aziraphale, and that moment when Aziraphale had walked away that night before Armageddon. Of course he'd come back later, but that wasn't what Crowley was thinking of. It was the moment Aziraphale had walked away when all hope had seemed lost then. That was how he felt now, too.  
"It is because, demon, I want you to hear every scuttling noise, every drip of water, every footstep that makes your heart leap because you think you could be rescued. But you won't be. You know that. I know that. But I'm keeping your ears on, and your eyes open because you and I both know that you still have a tiny bit of hope left. I'm crushing that bit of hope tonight. I'm killing it, along with the relationships you have. The ones with your family, if you have one, your friends, who I doubt even care that you're gone, and your…" he paused, deliberating. His struggle for a word gives Crowley a bit of pleasure that was quickly muted by the pain. "Your husband," he spat.  
Crowley would have shuddered if he could. The way Kek said it. It made him hate himself for dating Aziraphale, for proposing, for feeling happy with him. Crowley nearly shuddered again. Before he could chastise himself for thinking that way, Kek took his knife, and made one more clean, precise, slice. Right in between Crowley's eyes.  
"You don't really need them, demon, but I'm being nice. Next time, I'll cut them off too."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still don’t own the characters. I have tried contacting Neil Gaiman, but I don’t believe he will simply hand over the rights to me.

“Aziraphale, what are you doing here?” Anathema was sitting on her couch, Newt leaning over her chest as she read and he stared into space, probably contemplating life’s imminent ending.  
Aziraphale stood in front of them, looking rather frazzled.  
“What’s the matter?” Newt asked, his face twisting with concern.  
Aziraphale began to wring his hand in worry. “Crowley’s disappeared,” he said. “We were in the bookshop together and then he had to leave all of a sudden and I fear that something terrible has happened!”  
“What?” Anathema set her book down and gently pushed Newt to the side as she stood.  
“I think he might have been summoned,” the angel admitted.  
Newt sat hunched over his knees on the couch. “Summoned? Like by a cult? A demon summoning.”  
Aziraphale nodded. “I think so.”  
Anathema rubbed her chin, her brows furrowed in consideration. “That’s not good.” She walked over to the shelf where she kept books of the occult nature. She flipped through them to see if she could find anything that might help.  
“What do you need us for?” asked Newt.  
“Well, you’re our friends and I need to find a way to seek Crowley out!”  
Anathema turned to stare at the angel. “Can’t you sense each other, Aziraphale? Like, if one of you is in trouble the other knows where to find them?”  
“Well, yes, usually. Something seems to be blocking him from my mind.”  
“I see...” Anathema turned back to flipping through her books.  
Newt considered their options. “If we’re going to find Crowley and we can’t, er,” his eyes darted to Aziraphale. “Sense him. We just have to use what we know. We think he’s been summoned by a cult, and don’t they just find the nearest demon and it summons them? So that means he can’t be too far away. We just have to look for cults nearby.”  
“So we’re just going to be able to find the exact cult we’re looking for in the middle of England?” Anathema glared at her husband. “That’s not going to be easy.”  
“We could use the internet,” Newt suggested. Anathema sighed and went across the room to an old fashioned looking computer. It was the only one Newt was able to be in the same room as without breaking it. Anathema did not let him touch it, however. She didn’t think anything could stand that.  
Newt tried to sit down, but Anathema put a hand to his chest and stopped him, taking the seat for herself instead. “Don’t,” she said.  
"Probably for the better," Newt says, and wanders off to make tea.  
The results for "London cults" come up just as Newt returns. He lets out a groan when he sees the number of results. Aziraphale is silent, nerves etched across his face.  
"This might take a while," Anathema stated, scrolling through the web. "Most of these are just wiki pages and random websites that have nothing to do with local cults."  
"Do you think you could help find, like, specific cult web pages Aziraphale?" Newt asked. "Like in that one show, Lucifer, I think it was?"  
"Newt, please," muttered Anathema, engrossed in her screen. "Important business happening here."  
"No, actually that's a good idea," replied Aziraphale, finally speaking up since he first explained where he thought Crowley was. He snapped his fingers, ten tabs opening on Anathema's computer with a small pop.  
Anathema groaned. "We've got a bit of work to do here."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still don’t own the characters. I’m thinking of writing a healing process-a sequel-for this fic. What do y’all think?

Crowley was beyond petrified at this point. Half of his ears are gone. He had derogatory words for "gay" in hundreds of langauges all over his arms and legs. He could not move, he could not speak. The only reason he wasn’t discorperated from lack of oxygen was because he was a demon and didn’t technically require air. The absence of one of his senses put him on edge more than he thought it would, but of course, Crowley would never tell anyone that he was terrified out of his mind.  
Kek and his friends had been gone for a while. Not too long, only a few days. The only reason Crowley knew this was because he had impeccable sense of time. Human brains tend to muddle that up times. When they wait they think time moves slower. When they are enjoying themselves, time moves faster. Crowley finally understood the feeling. It felt like weeks, months even, since the day in the bookshop.  
A door from somewhere creaks open, and even though Crowley is pretty sure it's Kek, he's still glad for the company. He's been all alone since the "wing day", which is what Crowley decided to call it. He's had a lot of time to consider what Aziraphale probably really thinks of him. When Crowley proposed, he always had the suspicion that Aziraphale had only accepted because he felt bad for him. Crowley didn't even know if Aziraphale was able to love someone like him. He was a demon, after all. They were on opposite sides, no matter what either of them said. Crowley was losing hope that Aziraphale would ever come. It's not like they had tracking devices attached to one another, but they always seemed to know where the other was, and managed to turn up in the same spot.  
"demon Crowley," Kek said, his booming voice pulling Crowley out of his horror filled musings. The boy's voice had gotten deeper, although Crowley wasn't sure whether it was power or hormones. Watching Adam grow up has assured him that hormones don't actually work that fast.  
Crowley didn’t answer. He was forbidden to speak, and besides, he was in so much pain that it was hard to think.  
Once they had finished carving human words into his body, they began to carve curses--real ones that burned his skin when they were finished. Even more so than the thread. It was worse than the time Aziraphale had accidentally spilled scalding hot tea on him. He’s simply miracled the clothes off, and then miracled a new pair on. He was pretty sure Aziraphale had peeked, but Crowley didn’t say anything. The thought of Aziraphale’s blush creeping up his face made Crowley smile. It was the first time he’d smiled in the past three days, he realized.  
"What are you smiling about, demon? You have nothing to be happy about."  
Crowley doesn't answer because he can't. He's not really sure why the boy keeps asking him questions when he knows Crowley won't give a reply. He figures it's so Kek can flex his power over Crowley. Another wave of pain forces its way through his system, and Crowley shudders.  
"demon," he heard through the blinding agony, "have you ever heard of the fire ant? The black widow spider? The common mosquito?"  
Crowley managed enough strength to break the bond and nod. He was not entirely sure why he chose to break the bond -- to nod -- when he should have waited for enough strength to break the bond to at least say something biting back at Kek.  
"Well then, you'll know that if you search up on the internet "most dangerous insect", those are the first three answers that pop up."  
Crowley had no doubt, although he'd never personally searched that word combination before.  
"My boys have gathered hundreds of these insects. Thousands even, if you'll let me guesstimate to the nearest number that should send your body racking with shudders of terror at the thought of being anywhere near those creatures. One would be bad enough, but thousands…" Kek chuckled, and his laugh reverberated around the room. "I think, demon, that I'll take a break from visiting you for a while. You'll have company, don't worry. Oh, and," the boy glanced at something above Crowley's head.  
A small drop of water splashed down upon Crowley's hair.  
"Yeah… that's not holy water, don't worry. It's just regular water. For now."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are not my characters, although I wish they were.

Newt stepped up to the door of a building. He wasn't really sure what was happening, but figured anything would be worth a shot to get rid of the horribly worried look on Aziraphale's face. It's been a couple of days, and they still haven't had any luck finding Crowley.  
Hesitantly, he raised his hand and knocked. Someone in what Newt supposed was creepy makeup comes out, their black robe swishing menacingly behind them.  
"Uh…" started Newt, never exactly positive on how to breach the subject, "you haven't happened to summon a demon in the past few days, have you?"  
The person's brow furrowed, and they grunted. "No, we haven't." They didn't say anything else before slamming the door shut behind them.  
Newt crossed another name off his list.  
***  
Anthema picked up a bronze knocker in the shape of a snake, and clunked it loudly against the door.  
"Hello," she remarked. "I'm looking for a demon, have you perhaps summoned one in the past few days?"  
The girl who answered the door, raised a heavily painted eyebrow. "Nope. I haven't summoned a demon recently."  
She went back inside, leaving Anathema on the porch, anxiety rising.  
***  
The three reconvened at Jasmine cottage, and Aziraphale was obviously losing hope.  
"What if Crowley is dead? What if they keep him forever and we can't find him? I never took him to that sushi place he always wanted to go. He never took me apple picking. Crowley's never even had an oyster before!"  
Anathema and Newt exchanged glances, not entirely sure where Aziraphale was going with his anxiety induced rant. When he paused for breath, Anathema led him to the couch, forcing him to sit down.  
"We'll find him, Aziraphale," Anathema told the angel quietly sobbing on the davenport. "Crowley's strong. He'll be alright. I bet he's made excellent friends with whoever trapped him and they're just having fun. I'm sure he'd love to come back, but they won't let him because they're having a grand old time."  
Aziraphale took a shaky breath. "Of course. He's fine. It's just, it's not as though someone is going to say that they have summoned a demon."  
Newt came back into the room with tea, quietly handing a cup to Anathema and Aziraphale.  
"It's not a lost cause, Aziraphale. It will be fine."  
Aziraphale nodded, and turned to look out the window. Crowley, he thought. Where are you?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done guys, I don’t own these characters, just this fic.

Crowley had no clue how many days it'd been, how many hours, how many minutes. Once, he prided himself on having an impeccable sense of time. Now that was gone, along with much of his sanity (he assumed) and any hope he had of being rescued.  
The water droplets constantly berating his scalp have been a nuisance, along with the constant fear of a switch going off and turning the water holy. Crowley wasn't even sure how that would have worked, but he didn't want to find out. He'd never met any demon who'd survived holy water. Well, except for himself, but that was complicated.  
The bugs made his unresistant body into a home, stinging him, biting him, scratching with their feet and teeth. They were in his ears, on his legs and arms, and worst of all, in his nose. Crowley doesn't dare open his mouth for fear of what might come in, and what might already be inside.  
It's torture.  
Pure and unrelenting torture.  
That's a lot, coming from a demon, but Crowley has no other way to describe it.  
Finally, the boy--Crowley has forgotten his name, forgotten everything that he ever knew--came back in.  
"Hello demon."  
He reached out and ran his fingers over Crowley's arm, raking a path through the bugs, and sending them scattering to the floor. The boy snapped his fingers, and the bugs seemed to disappear, as if they were one of Aziraphale's magic tricks executed by an actual trained magician.  
Aziraphale, Crowley thought, the name coming to him through the fog. My husband. There's more. All of the sudden, the blankness comes crashing down, and Crowley remembers again. In some ways it's a relief. In others, it's not.  
"Demon, I've decided to be nice.”  
That wasn’t good.  
“Demon, I hereby grant you permission to make noise again.” Small giggles echoed through the room as Crowley felt his jowls relax. As the pressure on his vocal cords subsided, he let out a whimper that gave way to a muffled scream.  
Kek smiled, and pulled his scissors, ripping out the stitches holding Crowley’s lips together. Blood began to fill Crowley’s mouth, making him grimace at the taste.  
“And demon, I allow you to move your arms and legs, however you may not move from the chair, and you still are forbidden from using magic.” The momentary relief and splash of hope gave way to suspicion, and the all too familiar surge of fear.  
The boy--Kek, thought Crowley, the name popping into his head as he began to relax-ran his fingers along Crowey’s arm, slowly lowering himself onto Crowley’s lap. The touch sent shivers down his spine, but not the way Aziraphale’s did.  
The boy pulled out a knife, and Crowley braced himself for an attack, closing his eyes. But the boy doesn’t strike.  
“Demon, I forbid you from using any of your ‘demonly’ powers in any way possible.”  
“You did that already,” muttered Crowley, taking a deep breath, exhausted from the small hit of exertion. He was distracted though, by Kek’s hands. They’ve moved.  
The lights flip on, and Crowley lets out a hiss. He could see just fine in the dark, besides it suited his mood. Boys were standing around the perimeter of the room, small silver flashes coming from their belts. Squinting hard as his eyes adjusted, Crowley froze. They were knives.  
He was straight up terrified. The thought came to him and Crowley chuckled just a bit inside. He wasn’t straight up terrified. Just terrified. He’s already established he wasn’t straight.  
“Do you know why I’ve turned the lights on demon?”  
Crowley didn’t answer, biting his lip to hold back the hysterical laughter coursing through him. He wasn’t sure why he thought his “straight up terrified” joke was so funny, but he had a feeling the pain, lack of sleep, and terror had something to do with it.  
“It’s because demon, of what I would like to do to you next.”  
The laugh died centimeters from Crowey’s lips as a different laugh comes from Kek’s. The boy leaned in closer, and, almost tenderly, began to stroke the back of Crowley’s neck.  
“Don’t you f—ing dare,” Crowley growled, panic tightening his chest, speeding up the beat of a heart he didn’t really need.  
“Try and stop me,” grinned Kek, moving his hands slowly down Crowley’s vertebrae.  
A small shudder ran through Crowley’s body, and Kek laughed again.  
“Good, I’m already having an effect on you.”  
Crowley wanted to scream, but something stopped him. It wasn’t the boy, but something else. This had never happened to him before. This… this… torture. Sometimes it’d been bad, no movement, neglect, the waiting, but it’s never been so awful.  
Kek giggles, and nods. “I can see it in your face demon, nice to know you’re finally taking me seriously.”  
He began to wander his hands back to Crowley’s front. Crowley knew what came next. He was not excited for it. Kek begins to unzip Crowley’s jacket.  
This is not good, thought Crowley. This is terrible. He swore silently. It had taken Aziraphale years, centuries really, to break Crowley down enough to get them to be shirtless in the same room. He didn’t even know the boy’s last name. Granted, he didn’t know Aziraphale’s last name either, but that was mostly because he didn’t have one.  
Crowley pushed Kek off his lap, and the boy tumbled to the floor.  
“demon Crowley, I can make you do this or you can do it voluntarily!”  
Crowley ignored him--there was no way he was going to do it voluntarily--and began to untie the knots in the rope. He wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like he could go anywhere, but it’d just make him that little bit more comfortable.  
The boy slapped Crowley. Then he lowered himself back onto Crowley’s lap. He put his lips on Crowley’s, using his hands to keep Crowley’s face even with his, forbidding without words, daring Crowley to break the kiss.  
Honestly, Crowley thought, this would be rather romantic if he wasn’t in such a horrifying situation.  
Kek ripped off his shirt, revealing a smattering of hairs on his chest. That’s when it hits Crowley how young this kid actually was. He’d heard horror stories, demons tortured and stuck in circles, but all of them have been with legal adults, or at least legal age young adults-twenty or twenty one. This kid can’t be older than seventeen. Looking around, Crowley realized that the children around the perimeter weren’t much older either. In fact, all of them were younger. Kek must have been the oldest, and the thought made Crowley shudder again.  
The boy pulled back from Crowey’s face, gasping for air.  
“So that’s why you do it.”  
Crowley started back, blankly, and the boy laughed.  
“I needed to know,” the boy explained, more to himself than to Crowley. “I needed to know why it was so bad to love another man. If it really was that bad.”  
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”  
“No,” Kek panted. “It’s wonderful.”  
The other boys are still there watching, and Crowley made eye contact with one across from him, and spat on the ground.  
Kek took his hands, beginning to lick Crowley’s face. He presses his lips against Crowley’s again, poking his tongue into Crowley’s mouth.  
Crowley didn’t think, he just acted on instinct, letting his teeth open to allow the tongue past them, and then crunching down on it, making the boy squeal.  
The boy pulled back, “demon, that wasn’t very nice.”  
“I don’t care,” replies Crowley, having let his voice finally come back.  
“Ooh demon, don’t get feisty now. I’ll just make you submit.”  
“Better than me submitting to you of free will.”  
A boy came running from the sidelines, a small bowl and a glass of water in hand.  
Kek drank from the cup, then spat on the ground, ignoring the bowl. He turned, dismissing the small boy with a look, sending the boy scuttling back to the sidelines.  
Small tingles began to rub over Crowley as Kek massaged him.  
“Why are you doing this?” asked Crowley through gritted teeth.  
“I told you demon, I want to know if this is really that bad.”  
“Can’t you do it with someone else?”  
In response Kek kissed Crowley again, but Crowley remained as emotionless as stone.  
At least, he was emotionless on the outside. Inside, Crowley’s emotions roiled inside. He was tense, panicked, and angry.  
Kek began to lift Crowley’s shirt off, and Crowley knocked him to the floor.  
“You can’t,” the boy panted from the floor. “demon Crowley, I order you to let me take of your shirt.”  
Crowley couldn’t stop him when Kek tried again, revealing the scars. They were all over his chest and back. They weren’t the ones from the torture, no. They were Crowley’s own doing. For the first time, the boy looked slightly uncomfortable.  
“I assume you want to know.” It wasn’t a question.  
The boy didn’t say anything. His bluster was losing steam.  
“They’re for every person I’ve known who’s died.”  
Kek’s eyes glance up and down Crowey’s torso. “That’s a lot of people.”  
“I’ve lived a long time.”  
There was silence, and Crowley wondered if the boy was going to let him go. But then a sly expression came onto Kek’s face.  
He began to lick Crowley’s face, kissing it, nibbling at it. He untied Crowley all the way as he basically ate Crowley’s face. He paused for a moment, tracing a scar. Crowley had gone into his head. Whatever happened to his corporation, he didn’t care. He was gone.  
The boy didn’t know this, and ordered Crowley to stay in the circle anyway, forgetting that Crowley was bound by the markings.  
Crowley has completely dissociated himself. Hands that aren’t his pulled off his jeans, and the boy smiled, pulling off his own pants.  
Two men-one barely a man-stand in a room, surrounded by other boys, watching. Both in their underwear.  
Crowley doesn’t know what’s happening. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t ask to be here. His head isn’t deep enough to hide in. Not from the torture. His eyes were shut as tight as they could go.  
Kek took Crowley’s hands into his own, and gently guided them over his body, almost as if he was the teacher.  
Crowley was screaming. He didn’t know if it was from fear or what the boy was doing, but he was screaming, the boy was laughing, and Aziraphale’s face was in Crowley’s vision, but Aziraphale couldn’t be there, because the boy promised that he’d never be found, and Crowley was screaming more and louder and louder and louder...  
And then it stops.  
The hands stop.  
The laughing stops.  
The whispers stop.  
And Crowley could breathe again.  
A voice started.  
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, BOY?”  
Crowley was lying on the ground, crying, whimpering, thrashing. The boy was on top of him, staring at something above him.  
Kek stands up. He was crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”  
Aziraphale hadn’t let the Pulsifers come in. He wasn’t sure what he’d find. He was glad they weren’t seeing this now.  
“TAKE YOUR FRIENDS.”  
Crowley had always joked about Aziraphale’s scary angel voice. Aziraphale didn’t use it often. He’d learned from watching other angels that saying “Don’t fear” in your scary angel voice wasn’t very effective.  
He gestured to a door on the other side of the room.  
“TAKE YOUR FRIENDS AND STAY IN THAT ROOM OVER THERE. IF ANY OF YOU LEAVE THAT ROOM, I WILL KNOW, AND I WILL FIND YOU, AND YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN THEN.”  
The boys left, scuttling away, crawling on top of each other, racing to get to the door.  
“YOU TOO,” Aziraphale said to Kek, and the boy ran off, grateful to be out of sight.  
Aziraphale bent over Crowley, and started crying too. “I’m so sorry, dear. We’ll get you out of here.” Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley’s clothing reappeared. Aziraphale knew exactly what to put him in. From his briefs to his jacket.  
Aziraphale broke the circle, and carried Crowley out of the basement.  
They were both shivering, and the rain wasn’t helping.  
“Shhh.” Aziraphale ran his hand through Crowley’s hair. “It’s alright. I’m here. You can sleep now.”  
Despite the inevitable nightmares and the terror and pain coursing through his body, Crowley only caught a glimpse of Newt’s car before he blacked out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Crowley has been rescued (I don’t own these characters btw) and all is well.... maybe. Let me know how you feel about a second part. Thanks for reading guys!

Crowley woke up, and immediately began thrashing. His eyes hadn’t fully opened, and he was panicking. He didn’t know where he was. Something was draped on top of him.  
“Shhh. Shhh dear. It’s all right.”  
The night before came crashing back to Crowley, and he collapsed into Aziraphale’s arms. The heaviness that was draped over him was a blanket--the one from their bed, Crowley noticed.  
A book lay discarded on a chair, pages bent in the owner’s haste to leave it.  
Crowley hugged Aziraphale harder, burrowing himself in the familiar scent. They finally released, and Aziraphale handed Crowley a mug of water. It was in Aziraphale’s favorite mug.  
“What happened, Crowley?”  
Crowley’s eyes were bright. A little too bright. Aziraphale made a mental note to give him some Aspirin, Crowley didn’t need to get sick on top of all of this.  
“It was just a little mishap with some lads…” Crowley trailed off, quailing slightly under Aziraphale’s gaze.  
“Crowley! It looked like they tortured you! You were lying on the ground when I found you!”  
“Yeah some torturing may have come up.”  
“Crowley! This is no time for joking! How badly did they hurt you?”  
Crowley wanted to say, “not at all.” He wanted to say, “I’m fine, angel.” But he knew that would be lying.  
He let out a small sigh. “A lot. They hurt me a lot, angel.”  
Aziraphale let out a swear that even Crowley had no idea a mouth could say without catching fire.  
“Angel?”  
“Yes dear?” Aziraphale’s arm stroking was starting to trigger something. It was harder than normal.  
“What… what did you do with the boys?”  
Crowley tried to ignore the itch to scream, to push Aziraphale away and tell him it wan’t a problem, that he was fine. Crowley couldn’t though. He just pulled his arm out from under Aziraphale’s fingers, leaving the angel a little confused and a little hurt.  
“I put a parasite in their brains,” Aziraphale said. “It will eat them from the inside out. First will go their senses and stability. Then their identity then their body. They’ll go mad.”  
Crowley stared at him, raising an eyebrow. “You thought of that on your own?”  
Aziraphale sighed. “It was Ananthema’s idea.”  
“Thank you for rescuing me.”  
“Don’t call it that,” replied Aziraphale, flashing back to the French Revolution. It was an automatic response, though he was trying to kick the habit to deny any association with the other side. But it didn’t matter now, it was just them. On their own side. He leaned in to kiss Crowley, and let their lips meet, hoping to melt away Crowley’s fear, though he knew it would take a long time for him to recover. But for now he would just be here for Crowley, because that’s what he needed.


End file.
